


what full lips

by StrangeHormones



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Doggy Style, F/M, Masturbation, Overstimulation, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27123986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeHormones/pseuds/StrangeHormones
Summary: brahms heelshire x reader| body and soul come together as we come closer together. and as it happens, it happens here in this house.
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 157





	what full lips

The day is coming. Eventually, you’ll want more. More than taking care of him in an empty manor. He’s seen it, watching you even when he’s supposed to be asleep. A dirty book in one hand, the other moving against you from your awkward cross-legged position, rocking as your eyes darted across the page. Your release is far different from his. A hitch of the breath and squeak, your back straightens, your eyes flutter shut. You hum, your shoulders slumping as you fall back, hips undulating until you had worked out the tail end of your orgasm. You always sigh, a deep heavy thing as you drop the dog-eared book on the nightstand and pulled at the cord. It’s only when he’s sure you’re asleep does he creep in the room. Swiping the books that tell him more and more about you and what you crave. He never reads farther ahead, only as far as you have. Finding his own release at the literary moment you had found yours felt like a connection. 

But you didn’t have that. You have a quiet manor where you read him his lessons, played his odd games, and spent your days seemingly alone. You have these stories. Men who sweep women off their feet, reducing them to nothing but vessels for desire through all manner of carnal acts Brahms had never imagined, let alone considered. He could imagine no one else but you. Who did you see behind those lids? Soon fantasy will no longer be enough, he knows it because he’s feeling it too. It gets harder and harder every time, he watches it happen to you. 

It had to be tonight, he knows it, watching you try so hard to cum, so close to reaching it so many times and falling just short. Something almost like a sob falls from your lips, you throw the book across the room. Both feet rest on the floor, your hands gripping the sheets as you tried to catch your breathing. Hoping the cold skin and starting all over again might lead you to the end you’ve become so needy for. Your legs twitch, your nipples strain, your fingertips hurt from how tightly you’d begun to dig them back into your own skin, the sheet gathering under your nails. 

The floor creaks, “Brahms,” your voice a well-practiced warning, he doesn’t have to see you to know that’s all it is, “You’re supposed to be in bed,” practiced.

You had never truly thought to question what exactly Brahms was aside from here. Enough to know he was real, existing inside the walls but far enough away to still be lonely. Your door opens, the floorboard creaks, you lift your head, intent to shout at the child for entering your room in the midst of an undeniably intimate moment. It catches in your throat at what could only be Brahms, recognizable only because of the glinting porcelain of his face and nothing more. Your thighs clench around your hand. Cardigan stretched across broad shoulders, a thicket of chest hair dipping beneath the low neck of a dirtied undershirt tucked into slacks with suspenders that hung off the waist beside each thigh, everything about him oozes with animalism that borders on extinction in the modern world. Curls flop over his forehead, an auburn hued beard peaks beneath the edges, darkened eyes, all starkly contrasted by the cracked off-white mask that should deter you but only seems to further drag down into depths of whatever madness lived inside the Heelshire mansion. He crouches, the book fighting in one large hand as he looked down at it and then back to you. 

“This is a dirty book,” the voice heavier, far more masculine than the child’s voice that had demanded you play but with the same lilt, “Have you been a naughty girl?” his tone isn’t mocking, head cocked to the side when you nodded slowly with a harsh swallow, “I’ve been naughty too.”

Your breath hitches, “Have you?” you manage to stutter out on a heavy breath, as he draws closer and closer to you.

He nods, setting the book down purposefully, “I watch you read,” easing onto his knees as he gripped beach knee tightly and forced them apart.

You gasp, breath trembling when his fingers hook in your thin pajama shorts and rip them in half like tissue paper. He’s unreadable, your pussy glistening wet and on display for him. You don’t know what to do except let his hands travel along the sensitive flesh of your thighs, higher and higher. He keeps his eyes on you, more warning than asking any sort of permission, before gliding his thumb across that sensitive bundle of nerves he’d come to learn all about from your personal library. Rubbing pressured circles into it, your head threatens to loll back once more. He needs to see you, his fingers threading in your hair, and forcing your forehead to his is proof of that enough. 

Your nerves are still oversensitized from the way you had rutted against yourself, it doesn’t take much, an experimental slip of his middle finger to feel how warm and wanting you are for him. Your hands fly to his shoulders, fingers digging into him till your positive even he can feel the bite of your nails through the thin cardigan. There’s something about how he feels inside you, how he touches you as if you belong to him and he’s simply discovering all the wonderful things you can do. Your groan is a deep guttural sound you didn’t know you were capable of making, he inhales sharply at the noise. When the dizzying sensation of finally reaching your release had passed you expected him to stop but he doesn’t. His thumb slips up and down with the thrusting motion of his finger, your own are beginning to ache, making you infinitely thankful for his hold on you and it’s strength. Your second orgasm crests feeling far more like one should, coiling tight in your body before snapping. Every inch of you tenses and goes limp, slipping down his knit covered arms, toes curling as your heels lifted off the ground. You moan, a long, languid sound of enjoyment that fills him with indescribable pride. Brahms wants it again, he needs more. He adds another finger instead of stopping.

“My God!” you gasp, unable to keep anything inside yourself anymore. 

Every gasp is more often, your moans are louder, eyes allowed nowhere else than the hollowed-out holes of his mask. He’s pressing hard, moving faster, stretching you wider. He pulls you to your feet, making you stand on wobbling legs for a brief moment before your face is buried in the quilt. His fingers never stop, his strength and the new position brings a surprising third release, you hold the sheets tight rolling your hips back to meet his fingers as you desperately chased it to its end.

“Brahms,” you gasp, his hand falling from you no matter how you angle your hips to follow him. 

You shudder and shake, waiting patiently and listening to the muffled zip of his trousers, “Stay,” it seems easy to say yes but his swollen head prods against your entrance, you gasp, body threatening to slip forward on the mattress, “Stay.”

“I said I would,” you whisper, groaning as he fills you to the brim.

His hand pushes up the back of your top, one hand flattens on your back, up and down your spine, the other digs into your hips. Tomorrow you’ll be able to trace the perfect bruises with your fingertips, tonight they hold you in the place he desperately needs you most. 

“You’re so pretty,” he coos, jostling his hips experimentally, “Pretty, pretty, pretty…” his voice fading into a hum when he makes his first real thrust.

Your nerve endings are on fire, every touch feels as if that is the one that will send you tumbling over the edge. Even as he has you bent over, every touch is somehow loving, each snap of his hips designed to hit that special place inside you that has you half-moaning, half-sobbing. Your nerves are raw and fire soaked, spots dancing in front of your eyes, you clench desperately around his cock as he pounds into you. His hips move fast, faltering when it threatens to overwhelm him, but he grits his teeth, holding back. He needs to feel you lose control around him, squeezes his most sensitive parts just as you had his fingers. Your body quivers and shakes, your throat aches from the power of your cries for him, needing him. 

“Brahms!” his name a cry you can’t control, reaching back for him.

He blankets you with his own body, warmth and his masculine scent overwhelms you, there’s no escaping and you have no want to. His hips snap tightly against you, your knees buckle out from under you, the cool, pointed tip of his mask traces the curve of your neck, huffing and puffing in your ear. 

“I’m supposed to be yours, Brahms,” you gasp, desperately needing more and for him to stop all at the same time, “Aren’t I?”

He grinds down into you, forcing pleasure up your body in a way it never has before. His body shakes over you, he grunts, focused hard on rutting against you to his own release. Unable to hold back anymore and finding his own end was just what was needed for you to cum once more. You’re a vice around his cock, milking all of him, his smooth, pulsing muscle makes tears finally fall from your eyes. Ripping one last strained orgasm that leaves panting and exhausted. 

“Kiss,” his voice teeters on childish but is unwillingness to move is anything but. You strain your neck, pressing your lips hard against the porcelain as he holds your entire cheek in his hand, “You’re mine.”


End file.
